Back to "stranger with no intentions" 1. story-part
Back to "the difference has blurred" 2. story-part
Back to "from Isabelle to you" 3. story-part
I have heard you whisper in your dreams, head steady on the pillow,
your hair wild and free, trying to escape across the floor. The words
have been blurry, as to make no difference
and shed no tears, not willingly. Unwillingly, you have often fallen
into the hands of others, of the people, the crowds. I have to grin at
that, teeth rows digging into the blanket as my breath roars slowly
beneath ribs and lungs. How could the crowds, the people, all those
ugly little things that call themselves alive, how could they ever have
been able to even detect you? To see you as you move, floating above
the concrete, vanishing in sparkling dust? My fangs chew on the
blanket, dissipate a growing laugh. I may be a little mean, a little
too obvious when you are asleep. You have granted me this right..
..which is to roam your wanton dreams and
sullen desires at night. To creep between the sheets and slip over
your warm flesh, touch your gasping intake of breath, touch your little
porcelain lips. Oh, dearest, the dragon is in your wake. Oh, Isabelle, the dragon is at your feet. The dragon is guarding
the entrance to all your desperate longing, rumbling while it rolls
along the floor with your clothing, basking in your scent, the hot
smell. Some are fragile and vulnerable with their eyes closed. You are
merely beautiful.
I have heard idle sighs wandering through your
fingers right before dawn, growing larger and more looming as the
birds' song falters. They know it's coming now; soon, it's coming now.
And I
stalk about the windows, always ready for the next attack. For so long
I've been carefully prepared and trained to watch over us, and watch
out for the real night-stalkers. We've always been slightly different,
from light and from dark. And still you encompass both. You're like a
little candle in everything pitch-black. That draws out the
unspeakable. But you knew this, as you knew that I was just a tiny bit
alike that which I now keep you from. There is always the murmur of a
shadow in any mirror we pass, any reflecting surface. Still, we carry the candle.
And they know so very well. How beautiful you are, how different we have become, from day and night. We are not
vulnerable when asleep. We are not vulnerable when awake. We are not
vulnerable when we run alongside life, nor do we show the fear when up
against the crowds, the people. You are nearly awake now, I can feel it on your breath. I
take a last turn about this room, remembering a lost smell, the scent
of a hunter. A wild man, someone whose hands are weapons. He's out
there running paths through stranger woods, touching us as closely as we do touch him. I remember he
told us things, I remember him from the garden with
the blackberries.
Forward to the interlude; take your stormy weather along